Henry Esmond; The English Humourists; The Four Georges. William Makepeace Thackeray
Читать онлайн книгу.
in the company of this kind mistress and her children.
These happy days were to end soon, however; and it was by the Lady Castlewood's own decree that they were brought to a conclusion. It happened about Christmastime, Harry Esmond being now past sixteen years of age, that his old comrade, adversary, and friend, Tom Tusher, returned from his school in London, a fair, well-grown, and sturdy lad, who was about to enter college, with an exhibition from his school, and a prospect of after promotion in the Church. Tom Tusher's talk was of nothing but Cambridge, now; and the boys, who were good friends, examined each other eagerly about their progress in books. Tom had learned some Greek and Hebrew, besides Latin, in which he was pretty well skilled, and also had given himself to mathematical studies under his father's guidance, who was a proficient in those sciences, of which Esmond knew nothing, nor could he write Latin so well as Tom, though he could talk it better, having been taught by his dear friend the Jesuit father, for whose memory the lad ever retained the warmest affection, reading his books, keeping his swords clean in the little crypt where the father had shown them to Esmond on the night of his visit; and often of a night sitting in the chaplain's room, which he inhabited, over his books, his verses, and rubbish, with which the lad occupied himself, he would look up at the window, thinking he wished it might open and let in the good father. He had come and passed away like a dream; but for the swords [pg 100] and books Harry might almost think the father was an imagination of his mind—and for two letters which had come to him, one from abroad full of advice and affection, another soon after he had been confirmed by the Bishop of Hexton, in which Father Holt deplored his falling away. But Harry Esmond felt so confident now of his being in the right, and of his own powers as a casuist, that he thought he was able to face the father himself in argument, and possibly convert him.
To work upon the faith of her young pupil, Esmond's kind mistress sent to the library of her father the dean, who had been distinguished in the disputes of the late king's reign; and, an old soldier now, had hung up his weapons of controversy. These he took down from his shelves willingly for young Esmond, whom he benefited by his own personal advice and instruction. It did not require much persuasion to induce the boy to worship with his beloved mistress. And the good old nonjuring dean flattered himself with a conversion which in truth was owing to a much gentler and fairer persuader.
Under her ladyship's kind eyes (my lord's being sealed in sleep pretty generally), Esmond read many volumes of the works of the famous British divines of the last age, and was familiar with Wake and Sherlock, with Stillingfleet and Patrick. His mistress never tired to listen or to read, to pursue the text with fond comments, to urge those points which her fancy dwelt on most, or her reason deemed most important. Since the death of her father the dean, this lady hath admitted a certain latitude of theological reading, which her orthodox father would never have allowed; his favourite writers appealing more to reason and antiquity than to the passions or imaginations of their readers, so that the works of Bishop Taylor, nay, those of Mr. Baxter and Mr. Law, have in reality found more favour with my Lady Castlewood than the severer volumes of our great English schoolmen.
In later life, at the University, Esmond reopened the controversy, and pursued it in a very different manner, when his patrons had determined for him that he was to embrace the ecclesiastical life. But though his mistress's heart was in this calling, his own never was much. After that first fervour of simple devotion, which his beloved Jesuit priest had inspired in him, speculative theology took [pg 101] but little hold upon the young man's mind. When his early credulity was disturbed, and his saints and virgins taken out of his worship, to rank little higher than the divinities of Olympus, his belief became acquiescence rather than ardour; and he made his mind up to assume the cassock and bands, as another man does to wear a breastplate and jack-boots, or to mount a merchant's desk for a livelihood, and from obedience and necessity, rather than from choice. There were scores of such men in Mr. Esmond's time at the Universities, who were going to the Church with no better calling than his.
When Thomas Tusher was gone, a feeling of no small depression and disquiet fell upon young Esmond, of which, though he did not complain, his kind mistress must have divined the cause: for soon after she showed not only that she understood the reason of Harry's melancholy, but could provide a remedy for it. Her habit was thus to watch, unobservedly, those to whom duty or affection bound her, and to prevent their designs, or to fulfil them, when she had the power. It was this lady's disposition to think kindnesses, and devise silent bounties, and to scheme benevolence for those about her. We take such goodness, for the most part, as if it was our due; the Marys who bring ointment for our feet get but little thanks. Some of us never feel this devotion at all, or are moved by it to gratitude or acknowledgement; others only recall it years after, when the days are past in which those sweet kindnesses were spent on us, and we offer back our return for the debt by a poor tardy payment of tears. Then forgotten tones of love recur to us, and kind glances shine out of the past—oh, so bright and clear!—oh, so longed after!—because they are out of reach; as holiday music from withinside a prison wall—or sunshine seen through the bars; more prized because unattainable—more bright because of the contrast of present darkness and solitude, whence there is no escape.
All the notice, then, which Lady Castlewood seemed to take of Harry Esmond's melancholy, upon Tom Tusher's departure, was, by a gaiety unusual to her, to attempt to dispel his gloom. She made his three scholars (herself being the chief one) more cheerful than ever they had been before, and more docile too, all of them learning and reading much more than they had been accustomed to do. “For who knows,” [pg 102] said the lady, “what may happen, and whether we may be able to keep such a learned tutor long?”
Frank Esmond said he for his part did not want to learn any more, and Cousin Harry might shut up his book whenever he liked, if he would come out a-fishing; and little Beatrix declared she would send for Tom Tusher, and he would be glad enough to come to Castlewood, if Harry chose to go away.
At last comes a messenger from Winchester one day, bearer of a letter with a great black seal from the dean there, to say that his sister was dead, and had left her fortune of 2,000l. among her six nieces, the dean's daughters; and many a time since has Harry Esmond recalled the flushed face and eager look wherewith, after this intelligence, his kind lady regarded him. She did not pretend to any grief about the deceased relative, from whom she and her family had been many years parted.
When my lord heard of the news, he also did not make any very long face. “The money will come very handy to furnish the music-room and the cellar, which is getting low, and buy your ladyship a coach and a couple of horses that will do indifferent to ride or for the coach. And Beatrix, you shall have a spinet: and Frank, you shall have a little horse from Hexton Fair; and Harry, you shall have five pounds to buy some books,” said my lord, who was generous with his own, and indeed with other folks' money. “I wish your aunt would die once a year, Rachel; we could spend your money, and all your sisters', too.”
“I have but one aunt—and—and I have another use for the money, my lord,” says my lady, turning very red.
“Another use, my dear; and what do you know about money?” cries my lord. “And what the devil is there that I don't give you which you want?”
“I intend to give this money—can't you fancy how, my lord?”
My lord swore one of his large oaths that he did not know in the least what she meant.
“I intend it for Harry Esmond to go to college.—Cousin Harry,” says my lady, “you mustn't stay longer in this dull place, but make a name to yourself, and for us too, Harry.”
“D——n it, Harry's well enough here,” says my lord, for a moment looking rather sulky.
[pg 103]
“Is Harry going away? You don't mean to say you will go away?” cry out Frank and Beatrix at one breath.
“But he will come back: and this will always be his home,” cries my lady, with blue eyes looking a celestial kindness: “and his scholars will always love him; won't they?”
“By G——d, Rachel, you're a good woman!” says my lord, seizing my lady's hand, at which she blushed very much, and shrank back, putting her children before her. “I